Café
by Elagabalus
Summary: A tiny café, two young men, duties forgotten, and conversations. (rating subject to change)
1. Purity is Thine Sin

Café

By King

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

Soft scraps of conversations and the crackling of biscotti wrappers drifted among the tiny metal tables. The overwhelming aroma of coffee like a new dawn hitting the fresh earth with the slightest undertone of sweet, thick vanilla caressed the café's occupants. 'Café' perhaps might not be the right word for the tiny section cut off from the enormous bookstore where less than financially solvent collage students flocked to immerse themselves in volumes essential to that paper or this thesis. Even the single cashier at the cramped glass counter brimming with eclairs, pastries, and coffee cakes seemed indifferent to the going-ons of his fellow man striving their best to pump caffeine into tired, overworked blood streams. 

"Iced-latte. Grande."

His dreadlocks swinging limply, the cashier barely nodded to the customer as he swung around and worked the machines like a rote symphony.

"3.60."

His change hit the counter and the youth turned, his eyes scoured the tiled section. Seeming to find what he was looking for, he strolled casually to a table underneath the only window sitting snug in an isolated corner. One of the table's two chairs already occupied, the man grinned in a way that seemed ill fitted to his features.

"May I?"

The already sitting man studied him with a sober, blank face. His mercury-silver eyes had followed the other, expectant and almost hungry. However, such emotions had never registered completely over his fine-featured face. After all, it was unbefitting; pride was everything.

"You're late, Potter." Unaccusing, merely a statement.

Annoyed glares shot like arrows towards the loud screech of a chair against the tile as Harry slipped into the metallic seat. His awkward and pained grin gone, he grimaced instead and sipped on thefrosty strength of his iced-latte. His eyes flitted across to Malfoy in an unapologetic manner.

"I'm not. You're just early."

The blonde gave a derisive snort and twiddled absently with the tea bags of his steaming chai.

He suddenly looked up and glared at Harry. "How long, Potter?"

The dark-haired youth leaned back slightly as an eyebrow arched slightly in surprise. "How long what?"

"How long have we been hiding from all of- from everyone?" His abrupt fire seemed to fade into confusion as his voice lost its own confidence.

Harry's answer was curt and he struggled to mask his own emotions. "Three months."

"Exactly?"

"It's close enough."

Malfoy slid back from the edge of his seat. He seemed suddenly to be very interested in the passing shoppers of the outside world beyond the gritty window.

Harry looked away as well. It was often like this, these meetings they had lately. One would wait, the other would sit down, and a few words of awkward conversation passed between them. Once or twice they managed to have insightful discussions, but it was rare. They were both afraid. Afraid of getting too close, of discovering something dark, secret.Each was afraid to lay his soul bare and naked before the other. But still they came to meet at this confined little coffee shop knowing full-well that they were headed on a crash course to the end they dreaded most.

It had begun casually enough. They had fled from their destinies and hid themselves from the prying eyes of the wizarding world. It turned out to be much easier than expected to hide yourself in the muggle world. They came upon each other by chance in this café and had since met every week at the same time.

"Humans are stupid, ugly creatures."

Startled, Harry glanced at Malfoy in surprise. He was still staring out of the window, his profile sharp against the sunlight. He had thought that the arrogant prat had left behind his scorn of muggles.

As if reading his mind, Malfoy continued, "And I don't just mean muggles. All of them. All of the idiots out there killing themselves in a pointless battle for things that don't even matter."

Harry did not have to ask who the 'idiots' were.

"Good and evil. They don't matter. They're only delusions created by humans to justify themselves and feed their own egos. It's through the pursuit of purity and the accusations of sin that we find our downfalls. Animals are higher than humans. Are they not?"

His overpowering gaze sent a shudder down Harry's spine. He did not look away.

"After all, they are unconcerned about right or wrong, they live simply for survival. For Life. They do not fear death. And that's the root of it all. We're so afraid of our own mortality we become desperate to leave behind our mark. But in the end, it doesn't matter. We are all born the same, we all live the same, and we all die the same."

Harry considered Malfoy for a moment, and all at once began to bark with laughter. Irritated, Malfoy began to get up but was prevented from doing so by a bony hand of queer strength. He looked down questioningly at the other with a haughty air.

"Sit." Harry still looked amused, but now seemed genuinely apologetic.

Malfoy lowered himself stiffly once more into his chair and glared at the other man through hooded, suspicious eyes.

"A nihilist¹. You're a nihilist. Draco Malfoy, a nihilist. Who'd have known?" Harry chuckled faintly.

Malfoy flicked a strand of hair out of his eyes in a feigned nonchalant manner.

"I doubt it. You would be the more likely nihilist."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, indeed." Malfoy snapped. "Or have you suddenly forgotten that 'Ippolit's Explaination²' of yours?"

His dull green eyes darkened and he muttered in a strained voice, "I was being stupid."

"As opposed to normal?" He retorted spitefully.

Harry leapt up and simply stalked away, his shoulders rigid in anger and hurt pride. Draco sighed and grimaced at his long cold tea and left as well. But they would both return next week.

They always did.

* * *

¹ - a. An extreme form of skepticism that denies all existence. 

b. A doctrine holding that all values are baseless and that nothing can be known or communicated.

The reference here is a bit off, but neither Harry nor Malfoy are that much of a scholar.

² - In Fyodor Dostoevsky's novel, _The Idiot_, the consumptive youth Ippolit writes an article in which he struggles to convey his 'ultimate ideal', is ridiculed, and shortly attempts an unsuccessful suicide.

* * *

**A/N:** A bit of an oddball idea inspired from Interpol music and barley tea… but I must run away with the plot bunny… I have no idea where I'm going with this. xD; Any comments or constructive criticisms welcome. 


	2. Belief is Thine Ultimatum

Café

By King

**Warning- **If religious views of Christianity or atheism bother you to an extreme extent, please don't read any further.

**Disclaimer-** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

"Hey." 

Potter did not respond. His eyes were closed with his head leaned back. Those muggle contraptions called 'earphones' or whatever rested atop his mat of ridiculously breeze-tumbled hair. Reaching over, Draco pried away one of the 'phones'.

"Oy. Listen when I'm speaking."

He merely rolled his eyes and pressed a button on a small mechanism laid on the table beside his customary iced latte. Draco lowered himself into the chair reserved for whoever arrived last.

That was one of the unwritten rules. Never sit in the chair next to the window if you were last; it was something without meaning or purpose, but it had become sacred in this temple of mocha-amaretto scents and quiet conversations.

"That thing plays music or something, correct?" Draco inquired in what he had hoped was a casual enough tone.

Potter stared at him incredulously. "Malfoy, how the hell are you managing to survive as a muggle?"

Surprisingly, Draco merely smiled in an oddly spiteful way and replied, "I have my ways."

The other's brows plummetted in suspicion, but he let it pass. Draco smirked in his also customary chai tea. "_Oh, Potter, if you only knew…"_

Potter absently swiped at his hair and studied him with an unreadable emotion. "You know, I've been thinking."

Draco snorted. "_There's_ a change."

Ignoring his snide remark, the dark youth went on, "What you said last week. It's not true." He looked up and stared directly into Draco's eyes. The ex-Slytherin almost flinched. Almost.

"Go on."

Potter rapped his fingers for a moment, a thoughtful look on his tired features. He seemed to be contemplating the best way to go about his altercation against Draco's claims. The blonde, exasperated at the slow progress of this 'contemplation', had the sudden urge to slap Potter. Not long ago, he would have immediately followed this urge. But then the war began in earnest. And he and Potter had run away from things that they did not have the will to face. Once, Draco would have killed Potter as soon as sit and converse with him, but things had shifted. The world no longer seemed so small and petty as House squabbles.

Of course, it was most likely also due to the fact that both were in that awkward age just between manhood and boyhood. Both felt the maturity of experience in life taking a part in their daily actions, and yet still that childish clinging to rashness and overstated passion influenced them to become stubborn and unruly toward the other simply because they were frightened. Frightened of something they still had yet to understand.

"Do you believe in God?" Potter's voice cut through Draco's musings like a javelin.

"God?"

"Yes."

As a pureblood and a wizard, Draco had been raised to only believe in the power of his own volition. When he had found himself alone and a fugitive, he had seen no reason to change this.

"No. I don't. Humans are formed by their own actions, not by predestined paths."

Nodding his head simply, Potter did not seem surprised. Glancing about the café, his eyes skimmed over the bent heads of studious researchers to settle on a balding man with a high, black collar underneath his tweed jacket. His hand on the edge of the table discreetly pointed out the man to Draco.

"Y'see him? He believes in God."

Skeptical, Draco turned away from the man in tweed. "How do you know?"

Potter sighed impatiently and retorted, "Can't you recognize a priest when you see one? It's the high collar."

"Oh. I just thought he had a bad sense of fashion."

"He does. But that's not the point. The point is that he believes in God while you don't-"

"What's this to do with what I said before?" Draco interrupted becoming peeved at how long it was taking for Potter just to make a point.

"If you'd let me continue," he glared, "I'll tell you. That priest believes in God so much that he is absolutely convinced that his prayers are answered and that his soul will live forever. He might become doubtful every now and then, but he remains steadfast. You disbelieve in God so much that your will to succeed only by your own hand gives you the strength to be confident in yourself. You find peace in knowing that everything is logical and all has reason."

Draco sipped at his tea and followed Potter's every move in expectation. It was funny how those jaded eyes became so animate at times like these. He wondered if it was the same with himself.

"So who is right?"

"If the priest tells you that God exists, it must certainly be true. And if you tell me that there is not a God, then of course it is true."

The blonde's eyebrows arched in surprise. Perhaps Potter had had one too many lattes.

Noticing his dubiousness, Potter continued, "Don't you see? It's the belief itself that matters the most. If you believe in something enough to stand beside that belief in confidence, then it will unquestionably be genuine to you. So, in that sense, all standards are true no matter how contradictory they may seem at the surface."

Leaning back, Draco examined the not-quite-man before him. Potter seemed feverish in his excitement and quite satisfied with his own deductions. They both looked at the other expectantly though for what neither knew.

Finally, Draco drained his cup and shook his head. "That's just like you. Saint Potter. It's just like you…"

He expected Potter to be angry, but he merely seemed to become extremely weary. Standing, the dusky-haired youth put on his jacket and stuffed his CD player inside.

"Going?" Draco inquired.

"Mm. Work."

"You don't work on Saturdays."

"Doctor's bills."

"I see."

He left, leaving behind a half-empty iced-latte and a reflective young man.

* * *

**N/A:** Thank you for reading at least this far if you have. And I'd particularly like to thank Yas for your insightful reviews on my stories; most of your questions can be answered on my bio, btw. 

Also, I know the topic of religion is a bit touchy for some people, so if you've been offended by the views I expressed, please don't come and complain to me. It was your choice to read this; I didn't force you to.

The quote by Voltaire translated is –"If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him."


	3. Love is Thine Choice

**Café**

By King

**Disclaimer** - This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

He ached. His lungs, burning from exhaustion, ached. His legs, muscles worn, ached. His soul, blasé and world-weary, ached. Yet still he persisted in a relentless charge through a maze of slender iron legged chairs and elegant little tables. He paused. And stood there. Waiting. Watching. Watching Draco Malfoy. 

His eyes, those soft metallic orbs, raked over his frame, and Harry knew exactly what he'd see. He'd see an awkward little boy in this body that seems too large and at the same time cramped. He'd see the limp, dark curls and the parchment skin stretched across an emaciated figure. He'd see the dark circles playing their fanciful game of ring-around-the-posies under his eyes. But Harry refused to believe that he'd see the crystal butterfly breaking.

"You look god awful."

Harry grinned. It was an old habit he had picked up. Never admit you aren't a god, Harry. Never let anyone believe that you can't save the world, Harry. Never allow yourself to be weak, Harry. KILL YOURSELF FOR US, HARRY.

He slipped into the vacant chair and quipped, "Thank you, darling. I never knew you cared."

Malfoy scowled but Harry ignored him. Seeing a fresh iced-latte set before him already, Harry quirked an eyebrow Malfoy's way.

"You were really late. I figured you'd not want to bother with it." He shrugged.

"Supposing I came at all that is."

"You would come."

"I know."

Suppositions jaded, faded, comfortable. Meaning nothing while meaning everything.

Malfoy stirred his chai as he studied the other in distraction. Harry had noticed that Malfoy would stir his tea absently whenever he was worried about something. He was constantly stirring his tea.

"Why do you look so tired lately?"

It was an indirect question; one that only skimmed the surface. Just like Malfoy. Just like Harry.

"He won't leave me alone."

They were silent. Both seemed ready to bolt at that one statement.

"He doesn't… he doesn't know where…?"

"No. I've made sure he doesn't bother me on Saturdays. It's mostly at night."

The _tink tink_ of Malfoy's spoon tapping the bowel of the cup quickened. He seemed calm; his aristocratic features composed perfectly in that picture of refined dignity plebeians are so very fond of taking for granted. For some reason it irritated Harry. He shifted, restless and his manner pregnant with anticipation.

Malfoy finally glanced up at him. "Do you still dream about your parents?"

"Every once in a while."

"Do you miss them?"

"You'd think I would," Harry replied slowly, "but I don't. Not really in the way you mean, anyway. I never knew my parents. More than anything, I miss the _concept_ of parents."

"Well, you aren't missing anything spectacular. Parents are worthless idiots that have never once in the history of all mankind fulfilled their most important duty to their child."

"And what would that be?"

"Selfless love. No parent on Earth can bear the thought that there is a possiblitytheir child does not love them. But it is the duty of the parent to love the child, not the duty of the child to love the parent."

Harry had never thought on parenthood often. Most likely because of his own parents, or lack-thereof in any case. "Because the child is defenseless and formless. The parent made the choice of bringing it into the world and it is their responsibility to guide it selflessly. Correct?"

Malfoy nodded. "Yes, basically. But it can also be argued that the parent has sacrificed so much and loved so much that gratitude should be expected. It should be mandatory because society has dictated that every family unit should be entirely loving and bound."

"And that's what's safe. It's essential to the building blocks of civilization at large. Without a higher figure to love and obey as a child, you will never acknowledge a ruler as an adult." Harry added.

"But why? Why should we have to follow their wills? Why should we have to love them simply because they sacrificed for us? We did not ask to be thrown into this world of chaos and baseness. They chose that. And we learn to bear under the weight, even though we never once asked for it. And still they persist in their personal indignation at any from of rebellion. They became arrogant in their decision for a child to love when they expected equal repayment."

Harry's bony fingers fumbled across the slick surface of his plastic cup, his teeth gnawing at the neon straw. It wasn't strange, how bitter Malfoy had become. Still, he couldn't help but wonder at how… _guilty_ he sounded.

Harry doubted that he would ever truly understand Malfoy. He speculated whether he even wanted to.

"But they continue to expect it. They try to explain it all away, '_That's just how the world is.'_"

Malfoy trembled. It was barely noticeable; it might've been the coolness of the slightly air-conditioned café. Except for the fact that Malfoy had charmed his tea to remain warm at some point.

Harry said nothing.

"But why should it be that way? Why should they have the opportunity to choose for us? Why was the fruit tree grown in the first place?"

"You would rather peace over freedom?"

For a while, Malfoy was silent.

Outside, street vendors called their wares to those whom were deaf but to the insistent ringing of the cellphones held so reverently in their safe, safe pockets. The clinking of sparse pennies rattled within the guitar case belonging to a man that sang about bamboo trees and mushroom clouds. A police siren wailed in the distance.

He looked up. A thin, wane smile infected his countenance.

"You tell me, Saint Potter."

Harry looked down.

"You needn't worry so much over your parents, Malfoy. They aren't worth that."

They both looked away.

And, as par usual, they left to return on the next week. On the same day, the same hour, the same table, the same drinks.

* * *

**A/N:** This came to be a chapter that wrote a lot more smoothly than I had expected. I was putting it off because I really wasn't quite sure what I wanted from it, but I think it's satisfied me. It's slightly different from ones before, but probably only in little things that I'd only notice. And if you hadn't noticed, I switched back to 'Harry-mode'. I'm going to alternating between Draco and him, but I seem to be doing Harry better… while conveying Draco's personality better from Harry's POV. And vise-versa. n-n' I also know that there are some seemingly odd and out of place statements, but if you think about them for a while, they should make sense. 

Thank-you again to my reviewers. To Lilabeth for pointing out my error, but I had to take down the quote because just reminded everyone that we really shouldn't be posting lines we haven't written (and I had a whole bunch of quotes that I wanted to use). To shitsNgiggles (interesting choice of name xD): I know, Malfoy as anything else would be entirely too odd. To Yas for your terribly wonderful ego-inflating flattery (and I loved Candide, too).


	4. Tragedy is Thine Sustanence

**Café**

By King

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Warning**: Underage drinking (aftereffects, anyway). Don't read if it bothers you, please.

* * *

Draco frowned. His assured, confident steps quickened slightly in their weave toward his Mecca of flavored and caffeinated beverages that accentuated his conversations with Potter. Unfortunately, Potter currently seemed in no condition to have any sort of intelligent exchange. 

He was seated in their regular spot, in the regular chair, with the regular drink. This time, though, he had intertwined his arms together on top of the table as a support for his precariously nodding head. A vague, idiotic grin was plastered across his face and anyone within six feet of him could hear a distinctly slurred singsong like voice floating from him like a sickly seduction of intoxicating weakness.

"…criminalbound again-against a chair, we must stare, starestare…"

"Potter?" Draco looked at him dubiously.

He ignored the blonde. Either that or he was too caught up in his song to notice.

"And take- take allofthe medicines ssssellin' hiiighh… sscreeeaammm… into the- the earofthe anarchissst zat ssslleeps b-but don't dreammm…"

His could feel his eyebrows rising in surprise. And what a surprise this was. Either, one- Potter had finally gone off the deep end, or two- he was utterly, completely wasted. Knowing full well that Potter was already nutters to begin with, Draco decided it was the latter.

Upon making this most astute of observations, the former Slytherin prepared to take the next action under the most prudent caution. He poked Potter.

Blinking owlishly, Potter stared at him and exclaimed, "Draco, love! Wassup!"

"Good God, you're drunk," stated Draco, his lip pulling back in distaste. Shaking his head, he sat down.

Indignant, Potter tried his best to scowl. He managed a queer look that would have made little old ladies cross to the other side of the road. "Not I am!"

"What?"

Potter giggled. I mean, really, how creepy is hearing the Boy Wonder _giggle_? "Never 'eard of Yoda, Draco?"

"You're insane," he replied disgustedly. "Insane people should not get drunk. And don't call me by my first name."

"I'm not drunk!" Potter hiccuped conspicuously.

"Yes, you are."

He paused, as if considering something. Or he might've just tried to keep from regurgitating or something. Ugh. Awful thought. Leaning forward, Potter's breath drifted in a waft of alcoholic stink.

"I really am." He snorted loudly, apparently thinking this quite hilarious.

Draco rolled his eyes and glanced about. A few odd people were giving them some nasty glares, not that he actually cared, but the less attention they attracted the better. Shifting his hands under the table, he fingered his wand hidden up a sleeve and muttered a quick spell.

The change was instantaneous. The young man straightened up quickly and rubbed his eyes. Potter shook his head, grimaced when he realized that he had not hit a pair of glasses when he had reached up. He began to pat down various pockets until he slipped out his spectacles, and placed them firmly on the bridge of his nose.

He glanced at Draco subtly, muttering softly, "That's some spell. No hangover."

"I'm not teaching it to you," he replied sourly.

"Why not?" he said, brows arched.

Draco glared. "Because it might tempt you to get drunk in public again. By the way, how did you not get arrested?"

Potter stared at him. "Since when did you know you can get picked up by the police if you're sloshed?"

"I've been studying," Draco murmured, pinking slightly.

"Oh. Well," he said, scrutinizing the other closely, "I don't really know. Maybe it's national drunkard day or something."

"So you're a drunkard?" quipped the blonde.

"No!" Potter retorted, glaring.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Could've fooled me. Why didn't Mr. Dreadlocks over there kick you out?"

Potter glared fiercely at the café's one employee at the cash register. "Surely you jest. That moron wouldn't notice if you danced the tango butt-naked on his head."

"A pleasant image."

"It's not funny," he retorted, turning back. "It's just plain sad."

Draco gazed back, surprised. "It's nothing to get so worked up over."

"Yes, it is," he insisted. "People like that, they aren't even living. They're all just a bunch of zombies. A bunch of zombie middle class nobodies on Prozac."

"'Prozac'?"

"It's a muggle drug that pumps you full of crap to juice up the generators."

"Er…" Draco was constantly finding himself amazed at Potter's knack of being utterly blunt and quite a bit tactless.

Ignoring the other, Potter continued on with a rant-like air. "Every day they have everything perfectly planned. Get up, eat, go to work, work like the dumb dogs they are, come home, eat, barely speak to their family, and sleep. It goes on and on until eventually they turn into robots whose emotions are so deadened they have to cling desperately to the opinions of the media and every other brainwashing tyrant to retain some semblance of humanity."

"Mmm…" the blonde mumbled, sipping at his steaming mug and letting the hot spiciness flow down his throat. No point in interrupting Potter now; he might get savage and bite off a finger or something.

"And what little emotions they _do_ have really aren't worth mentioning. Emotions are what create people. Those pinnacles of anger, fear, love, lust, compassion, joy, greed, all of it; those are what mold the human into a complex being able to form ideals and give them the ability to question their lives, their existence, everything."

Draco leaned slightly forward, now watching Potter with avid interest. "How is it that emotion leads to a complex mind?"

Potter's eyes (had they really always been so very green?) seemed to stare through the other, as if he had barely heard the question but attached himself to it with incredible passion. Draco shivered.

"Let's say there was an author that suddenly lost her father to a prolonged illness. She, in her emotional turmoil, turns to her writing to express the agony and distraught she feels. She begins to explore through words new depths of her mind, her psyche, her life, and her relationships. She comes to gain a new wisdom and insight as she observes how hers and the people's around her lives have changed because of this one event. This event, which in truth would only be a tiny droplet in the great pool of the history of mankind, this miniscule and yet terribly great event has changed her forever. Through her tragedy this author sought to express herself in her art and she gained a new view of the world."

"And what about the people who are not so gifted in a form of art?" Draco queried, unconscious of the fact that he had yet to place his mug back on the table and had been holding it near his face for the last few minutes.

Potter sipped thoughtfully on his iced latte (the Slytherin was still wondering how he had managed to order it while completely drunk). "They have their ways to express themselves. The athlete to his sport, the scientist to his experiments, the soldier to his war, the teenaged brat with his first shot of hard liquor (a grin flashed over his face fleetingly). But the point is that they are all _living_. Living for something they believe in, living for something that offers an opportunity for personal development. Whether those opportunities are destructive or life saving is entirely irrelevant. They encounter peaks of living, peaks where their emotions are strongest and their very essence quivers in awe of simply being alive."

Draco lowered his eyes, setting his cold tea gently on the metallic table. His hand brushed lightly against the cool alloy feeling for all the world like a tight, bleak knot growing in his soul.

"Emotions and growth and living are very frightening things. But, it's those who reach out for their zeniths that find a completion of soul unknown and indescribable to someone who's become so dead inside they don't even look up when a drunk orders an iced latte."

Draco was silent.

* * *

**A/N**: I'm very unsure about this particular chapter; I don't really know if I conveyed clearly what I wanted to say. But then again, vagueness might be best as it allows for more free interpretation. It's a bit longer than the others and I added a touch more humor this time; I was just sort of in that kind of mood... 

The song Harry was singing was a very, _very_ bad rendition of Bright Eyes's "At the End of Everything". Which I thought was very appropriate for this chapter (and I didn't copy and paste, but totally screwed it over so I won't get sued. xD).

Thank you very much all of my reviewers for your wonderful comments; I really appreciate them.


	5. Beauty is Thine Escape

**Café**

By King

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

Harry ground his teeth, utterly, completely bored. And from where his head sat, chin against the cool table, he could tell Malfoy was getting impatient too. Not that is was terribly noticeable; you could only hear it in the bell-like tinkling of a spoon against a teacup and the rare, softly whispered sighs. 

These sorts of situations were common and both parties were used to it. Their silences might last an hour or minutes; they might begin abruptly or conversation would dwindle slowly. It all depended on their current moods and levels of patience.

Today, Harry had walked in, as usual, sat down facing Malfoy, as usual, all with his very usual drink: iced latte grande. The blonde across from him had said nothing and simply continued to stare down at his tea.

Harry sighed loudly, wondering if he should just get up and leave.

"Read the papers much, Potter?" Malfoy asked, as if he hadn't just spent the last half-hour ignoring Harry.

"Occasionally." His voice was completely devoid of any irritability; Malfoy wasn't the only one to masquerade behind wooden masks.

"There was an article a few days ago about this man down in Kent," said Malfoy, still not looking at Harry. "He was found wandering along the beach, completely soaked and dressed in a formal suit and white shirt."

Harry pushed himself up from his rather feeble position and watched Malfoy as he spoke. He wasn't sure, but Harry couldn't help but imagine a shimmer of brightness lingering about the other's eyes.

"He was disoriented, excited, vulnerable," continued Malfoy. "They brought him to a mental institute. The social service people there tried to get him to identify himself, but he would not speak a single word. They gave him paper and pencil and he began to draw an intricate depiction of a grand piano."

Malfoy's eyes finally looked up, but they skittered away from Harry, roving out the gloomily lit window. It was raining.

"He was taken to the chapel and shown a piano. Immediately, he sat down and began playing for two hours. It was only at the keyboard that he was ever calm or soothed.

"I'm sure many people would like to believe that he was some sort of second Mozart or Chopin, but he could only play a few tunes repetitively. A bit of _Swan Lake_ and some John Lennon. He's simply an 'accomplished amateur'."

"You just ruined that story," Harry commented rather indignantly.

Malfoy finally gazed back at him, his expression and eyes inscrutable. "Did I?"

"Of course," said Harry, "the entire beauty of it was that this musician had found himself in such a plight. If you take away his semblance of greatness, his artistry, you make him an unpardonably ordinary person. And instantly his story becomes dull and a tad ugly."

"Mmm…" Malfoy sipped absently at his tea. "It's strange, isn't it? The media only put out that story because they knew that even the most plain of the middle class would be able to see the beauty in it. Even in idiocy man will see beauty. But rarely do they actually recognize it for what it is."

"And that is?" Harry prompted.

"One of the greatest ideals of mankind. Beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder, you know. One can convince oneself that anything is beautiful. A chair, a blade of grass, the huge nose of that man behind you." Harry resisted the temptation of swiveling around to stare at these last words. "But in general you'll find the most beautiful things to be the agonies of man."

"How morbid."

Malfoy nodded. "Perhaps, but was not the hopelessness of Romeo and Juliet's affair what excited your sympathy, your awe of the terrible beauty of it? The romantics of this world are the most unfortunate people, you know. Each time they encounter the beautiful tragedy of this man or that little girl, their hearts break from the sheer wonder of it all. They catch themselves up in the plays and despair with every pang of heart of the characters."

Subtle hints of passion flashed through Malfoy's metallic eyes and his hand arched smoothly through air, emphasizing each point in his monologue. His lips opened and closed, words that were clipped in a cool, aristocratic fashion left his mouth in an unhurried grace. Suddenly, Malfoy's passion for these words seemed incredibly 'beautiful' to Harry, as the ex-Slytherin himself would have put it. He wondered vaguely why this was so. But of course. It was simply the faith he held.

Martyrs are beautiful. Cowards are not.

Harry felt his eyes lowering.

"But really," Malfoy was still speaking, "beauty is the most transient thing you'll ever find. A woman will age and wrinkles will form. The girl who ran away with her true love will become homesick. The roses will wither away and die. It's an endless cycle of drama and romanticism."

They were silent. Each was unsure of where to look, what to say. Eyes, silver and emerald, slid over each other and everywhere. Throats were cleared and fingers tapped. Drinks were sipped, the liquid rushing down their throats. Neither was really quite sure why they had suddenly become so self-conscious and nervous.

"Is war beautiful, Malfoy?"

For a long moment he did not reply, simply staring back at Harry. It was odd. A moment ago he had been doing everything in his power to look elsewhere, but now he couldn't tear his eyes away even though this simple question probably terrified both of them.

"I don't know."

* * *

**A/N**: I haven't updated this in so long… Sorry, but I was working on other stories and I've been a bit busy lately with school and personal things… But hopefully I won't wait so long till next time. 

The article Draco was talking about is actually true; you can search for 'The Piano Man' on the MSNBC website to find it.

Thank you again to all of my kind reviewers; it means a lot to me that people appreciate these things that I care so much about too.


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